


Your Hands Are Bloody (but Your Fingers Spell Out Love)

by Sparcina



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Character Study, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, F/M, Frenchie speaks French, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Making Out, Oral Sex, Post The Boys Season 2, Redemption, The Boys Season 2 - Spoilers, grey morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27869930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: The good drugs gave him a boost of happiness and self-confidence. The bad ones made him feel hollowed out and raw, desperate for something he couldn’t name.Kimiko was the perfect blend of both, and Sergeached.
Relationships: The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro/The Frenchman
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Your Hands Are Bloody (but Your Fingers Spell Out Love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/gifts).



> Dear gaialux,  
>   
> Just like you, I was hooked after the first episode of The Boys, and I like a lot of different ships. I hope you enjoy my take on Frenchie/Kimiko. There will be porn - among other items from your list of likes. Happy holidays ♥ ♥ ♥

As far as he could remember, Serge had always made the wrong choice. He supposed he could blame it on a less-than-stellar upbringing. At some point in his life, he might even have waved that excuse around, revealed in such denial, but ever since he'd chosen to save Jay from OD’ing and got Mallory’s grandchildren burned to ash as a result, he knew that there was nothing and no one to blame but himself. 

Which didn’t mean, of course, that he’d gotten any better at making the right decision. But he tried. And he kept trying, and he kept failing, but fuck, he wanted to get it right.

For _her._

*

The first time Serge saw Kimiko, she was huddled up under a table with a feral gleam in her big, dark eyes, and he knew that his life was about to change drastically. For better or for worse, he didn’t care: there was something about this wild, bewitching creature who wiped his ever-buzzing mind clear of all rational thought.

She didn’t trust him. In a matter of minutes, he learned that her distrust extended to everyone. Later still, he found out why, and felt protective instincts surge inside him, stronger than anything he’d ever felt before. He wanted to offer a comforting touch, but he was afraid to spook her. Afraid to act too fast again and make another one of those mistakes that would weigh him down for the rest of his life.

He crouched down in front of her, this beautiful girl with dirt smeared all across her face, and extended one hand.

“Let me help you.”

*

Kimiko pulled at something deep within him, twisted his guts in a tight knot by just looking at him.

As it so happened, looks were all that existed between them most days. 

Serge didn’t know if she couldn’t talk or chose not to. He didn’t mind learning her sign language, but she had to teach him.

She refused. And he kept acting on instinct, without thinking. His mistakes kept piling up between them, building up a wall that Kimiko was all too eager to hide behind. No, not hide: Kimiko didn’t hide. She just… left. Detached herself from the bad things in her life.

Like him.

“I’m such an asshole,” he told the broken mirror, gripping the dirty sink with red-knuckled hands. The haze of LSD didn’t help him feel any better about what he’d done. _Mon Dieu_ , what was he been thinking, giving her that first kiss in an attempt to ease her guilt, to comfort her after the death of her brother? His lips still tingled from the too-brief kiss, and it made his own guilt ten times worse. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. 

Hours later, MM found him drifting off on the bathroom floor, crusted blood on his palms.

“Doing the wrong thing for the right reason is still doing something wrong,” MM told him, glancing at the mess of broken shards littering the ground. “And so is doing the right thing for the wrong reason.”

Serge realized he’d confessed his most recent fuck-up and chuckled, the sound raw and only a teeny-tiny bit hysterical. His eyes burned with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have-”

“We all shouldn’t have done a lot of things, and I’m pretty sure Butcher would agree with that statement, if he knew what self-reflection was.” MM patted his shoulder. “Come on, Frenchie. Time to go to bed.”

“’m good here.”

*

For some time, the tentative friendship he had with Kimiko became a serious bad trip, and he couldn’t get enough shut-eye to peek at a fork in the path full of traps he wandered on. Whenever their little band of merry fighters hellbent on revenge and redemption had some downtime, he smoked. Or took pills. He kept offering Hughie to join him for a trip, but their newest recruit steered clear of it all. In this fucked-up jigsaw puzzle of mismatched pieces, most of which had serrated edges and crusted blood wiping clear any veneer of respectability that might once have been there, the boy was their moral compass. 

“They’re bad for you,” he told Serge, ignoring the extended hand and the blue pill in his palm.

Serge curled his hand into a fist, half crushing the pill of ecstasy. Wrong choice, again.

“ _I_ ’m the bad thing,” he rasped to the room.

Hughie was long gone by then, and Serge was left alone with his guilt, and this stupid, stupid rage borne out of misery that Kimiko was now working as an assassin. He should probably add hypocrisy to the list of his faults. _“Go be a monster,”_ he’d told her.

It took one to know one, didn’t it?

*

When Kimiko returned, Serge felt the knot in his gut loosen. And when she began to teach him her sign language, when he learned from his mistakes at last, he felt like a dying man who had been offered a second choice. He felt like a man reborn whose senses were so sharp he had yet to figure out what it meant to see, smell, taste, touch, and hear. It mattered little that the first word she taught him was ‘gun’. Or that one hundred and thirty-three signs into their lessons, he still didn’t know what ‘love’ was.

He’d learn.

*

The night they went out dancing, Kimiko was a feast for the senses.

“ _Tu es magnifique, mon cœur_ ,” he told her, in French and Sign simultaneously.

She smiled as she conveyed her thanks. Her clothes, dark pants threadbare at the knees, and a threadbare shirt that would have fitted him better, were nothing fancy or even pretty, but Serge meant every word. To his eyes, Kimiko was always pretty. Whether she wore a cute button-down shirt and a fluffy skirt or grim on her face and blood on her hands, she never failed to catch his attention. In all the time he’d known her, the only makeup she’d ever worn was the juice of cranberries on her lips and the blush of anger, but she didn’t need anything more.

 _He_ didn’t need anything more.

Staring at her frail-looking, incredibly strong fingers dancing in a question, he wondered if he’d ever a chance. Probably not.

 _Ready,_ he signed back at her.

Out there under the night sky, Kimiko’s scent became layered with cigarette smoke and the scent of fried food sold at every street corner. Serge tried not to let it bother him. He had Kimiko walking by him, their hands brushing every few steps. Her expression was peaceful, her eyes darting back and forth between the buzzy urban nightlife and the sky devoid of visible stars.

 _I miss the stars_.

He had to make her repeat the signs, because ‘star’ was one of the newest words he'd been taught and he’d been looking mostly at her face.

“Ah.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, didn't dare risk a personal opinion, in case this mention of the stars was linked to her brother. He’d made so many mistakes, and he wished so much to avoid making yet another one. So, he just smiled at her, and nodded.

The next time their hands brushed, she laced their fingers together. His breath hitched, but he tried not to react otherwise.

“ _C’est ici_ ,” he dropped in her ear.

The club was packed, but they still managed to navigate the crowd without getting elbowed in the face. The music was loud, a jazzy electronic beat that he enjoyed very much and which seemed to please Kimiko, too. It took him all of five seconds to realize that while they were there to dance, he’d forgotten how to do that without being all over his partner. He snatched his hand back before he could place it on Kimiko’s hip and led her away from the densest part of the crow.

“Yes, _comme ça_ ,” he said, delighted, as _she_ placed both of her hands on Serge’s hips. He wanted to taste her smile and press his nose into her silky dark hair. He ached to drop to his knees right there and bury his face in between her breasts, in between her legs, worship every inch of her. The words burned already at the tip of his tongue: _do whatever you want with me. Please._

He remained silent. And as they swayed to their own rhythm, he unearthed bits and pieces of various ‘proper’ dance styles from his memories. After a while, the music changed, and Serge shared these styles with Kimiko, laughing with her as they stepped on each other’s toes and bumped knees. By the time he realized that he was holding her waist and could feel her breasts pushing against his chest, she was leaning in to kiss him.

She tasted like she smelled: sweet, dangerous, intriguing. Enthralled, he gasped at the first hint of wetness against his lips, and welcomed her questing tongue inside his mouth. He’d kissed many girls (and plenty of boys, too) in his life, but this sloppy kiss with too much teeth and tongue was by far the best he’d ever had. When they parted for air, bumping into a twink who spilled his drink with a curse, he felt deliciously high and wound up.

“ _Mon coeur_ ,” he moaned.

Kimiko’s hands moved to his face, cupped his cheeks like he was the most fragile thing. And he was. Compared to her, he was glass in her hands. The thought that she could break him and he’d let her crossed his mind. It was not a repelling thought.

 _Serge_ , she mouthed at him, quiet and so close, her eyes so dark he could feel himself sucked into her gaze, and falling, falling, falling…

When he kissed her this time, slow and sensual and without haste, it was for the right reason.

And when she kissed him back with a matching degree of enthusiasm and passion, he knew it was the right thing, too.

*

Kimiko was not mute. She may be unable or unwilling to talk, but she could make sounds all right. She had, after all, laughed at that _salope_ Stormfront’s face.

And now, in the motel bed he’d paid cash for a price he’d been too distracted to negotiate, she made plenty of other noises. Moans and gasps as he did what he’d fantasized about doing for months and took her apart, kiss by kiss, one caress at a time. She wore no bra, and when he pressed his lips to the hollow between her small, firm breasts, and felt her hands weave into his short hair to _keep him right here_ , he was pretty sure he’d never been so happy.

“ _Tu es si belle_ ,” he crooned in between kisses, hands soft at her sides even though he couldn’t possibly hurt her, all the more reverent for her quiet, delightful strength. “ _La plus belle femme que j’ai jamais vue_ …” The scent of her become stronger as he crawled down her body. Her taut belly felt wonderfully soft and warm at the tip of his tongue, and the texture of her cotton panties rubbing against his cheek caused saliva to pool in his mouth. As soon as she signed her permission, he had his teeth embedded in the waistband of the panties and he pulled them down with a mixture of elation and impatience. “ _Tu sens si bon_.” He ran his nose over her mound, nostrils flaring as he took in her musky, feminine scent. He was hard enough to pound nails, but this wasn’t about him. “ _Je peux te goûter?_ ”

 _Yes_ , she signed, cheeks deliciously flushed, hands trembling at her sides, fisting the sheets.

He placed those hands back on his head, encouraging her to guide him, _show_ him what she liked, and then went to town.

It had been a while, mostly because they’d all been busy staying alive, but eating a pussy wasn’t something he was likely to forget. He buried his face in Kimiko’s crotch, delirious with the need to please, to be good to her. He licked and kissed her until he couldn’t breathe anymore, and then he kept on eating her out anyway, lapping at her juices, tongue swirling in between the two fingers he had sliding in and out of her. It was like this, wrapped up in her scent and taste, her strong hands cradling his skull and the soft skin of her thighs sliding back and forth against his cheeks, her moans and gasps of pleasure filling the air between them, that he felt it: how raw he was on the inside, his heart fit to burst with a feeling he’d thought he’d never feel.

When she climaxed at the tip of his tongue, he let the words out.

“ _Je t’aime_.”

In a heartbeat, Kimiko had him on his back. She was a vision, straddling him, and Frenchie stared hard at her hands. She had such fine hands, for a killer. Such bloodied hands, for an angel.

“Kimiko…” He trailed off as those fingers started to dance. The signs were unknown to him, but when he glanced in those dark, big eyes, he understood. His chest tightened painfully as the broken pieces of his heart were fitted back together under Kimiko’s watchful gaze. He pulled her down into a kiss, and part of him wondered if that was how it felt, to overdose on ecstasy.

**Author's Note:**

> *This fic is part of an exchange and has been re-dated for author reveals.


End file.
